


bespoke

by ghermez



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: BUT LOVE IS A HARD WORD TO SPEAK INTO EXISTENCE, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sakusa Kiyoomi, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, FaceFucking, M/M, Porn With Plot, Semi-Public Sex, i burn for you but sakuatsu part 1, teeth rotting fluff, they love one another
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:49:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29768196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghermez/pseuds/ghermez
Summary: “I'm so, so, sorry,” Atsumu says, and it's really not that necessary but he keeps apologizing as if it absolves him of ruining Kiyoomi’s 100,000 yen suit. Kiyoomi recognizes that pleading voice; Atsumu wants him to brush it off and say it’s okay, but there is no way for Atsumu, with his sponsors and his commercials, to get  off scot free.Instead, Kiyoomi says, “Accidents happen.” Then he pulls him towards the car and tells him, “My tailor takes cash and debit.”or: Atsumu owes Kiyoomi a new suit; but something strange happens to him when he sees Kiyoomi in it.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 12
Kudos: 106
Collections: Bottomi Week 2021





	bespoke

“I’m so, so, so sorry,” Atsumu says, and it’s really not that necessary but he keeps apologizing as if it absolves him of ruining Kiyoomi’s 100,000-yen suit. Kiyoomi recognizes that pleading voice; Atsumu wants him to brush it off and say it’s okay, but there is no way for Atsumu, with his sponsors and his commercials, to get off scot free.

Instead, Kiyoomi says, “Accidents happen.” Then he pulls him towards the car and tells him, “My tailor takes cash and debit.”

They are on the road in no time, Kiyoomi behind the wheel because there’s simply no way he will let Miya must-change-the-song-fifteen-time Atsumu drive his Lexus.

Atsumu throws him a glance then looks back out the windshield, phone clutched in his hand. “See, you _are_ mad at me, Omi.”

Apparently, the conversation of whether Kiyoomi is truly mad is still on the table. He gives Atsumu a bored look. (The brat might say that _all_ his looks are bored; but Atsumu is simply an asshole. _His_ asshole.)

“How does _that_ translate to me being mad at you?” He sighs and tries to listen to the song Atsumu is playing. The soft guitar alongside the melodious singing distracts him for a second but then the fade signaling it’s changing into another song, something with a heavy bass and screeching vocals, disrupts his attempt.

He can feel the heat of Atsumu’s gaze on his face. He knows Atsumu is pouting even if he doesn’t confirm it, but he does anyway. Damn it, why is Atsumu permitted to look cute while pulling on that face? A normal twenty-seven-year-old athlete with arms the size of baby watermelons would only look ridiculous. Instead, Kiyoomi’s heart flips in his chest.

This is on him, really. He’s the one who opened the door for Miya fucking Atsumu and his thunder-fucking-thighs to waltz right into his heart and stake ownership over him.

“If you weren’t, you’d say _Atsumu, light of life, I forgive and love you and will eat your ass the minute we get back home_ ,” Atsumu says in a deep voice accompanied by a rather affected manner that kind of offends Kiyoomi, once he lets himself think of anything beside the bit about _eating Atsumu’s ass_ that is.

“Is that supposed to be an imitation of _me_?” Maybe he should be getting mad after all.

“Well, who else would call me the light of their life?” Atsumu says, idly forgoing to bring up the _analingus_ part. Though it isn’t a bad idea; that conversation would put Atsumu on the road to redemption, and Kiyoomi refuses to admit _that_. Instead, he pretends to be offended.

He sniffs, but he can’t help the smile trudging onto his face, which Atsumu totally catches even though Kiyoomi tries to bite his lower lip into submission. He concentrates on changing lanes. And yeah, maybe he does it one handedly just to see the glorious sight of Atsumu’s amazement as he watches him. What of it? He’s allowed some hubris. (A lot of it.) At first, Atsumu had deemed it utterly unnecessary for Kiyoomi to get his license.

“We’re in the city, Omi,” he’d said.

They’d been sitting in this very same car, the smell of the new leather in his head and the crinkle of the protective plastic on the seats flooding his nose.

“So? I don’t want to ride in a cab,” Kiyoomi had said. And sure, he sounded like a priss, but he didn’t give a single fuck. People were disgusting in their cars. The last time he trusted a cab, he ended up with gum on the sole of his very expensive Air Jordans.

“I just think it’s a waste of money,” Atsumu had continued.

Kiyoomi had known the only way he could convince Atsumu of his reasoning was to spin to suit _his_. So, he’d ignored the faint siren sound in his head and reached a hand over to the middle console to where Atsumu sat in his passenger seat.

By then, Sakusa had known, with frightening poise, how much liked Atsumu’s touch, but he’d grown even far more delighted with how _his_ touch affected Atsumu. His was a feathery touch over Atsumu’s knee, sliding so slowly over the rip in his knees to his thigh, all the while leaning over, and whispering, in Atsumu’s ear—because Kiyoomi while hated the sensation, Atsumu gagged for it, “It’s so I can touch you whenever I like, Atsumu.”

And the admission shouldn’t have made Kiyoomi’s cheeks flare up, but it did. He has been on a constant burner, roasting ever so slightly, for the astonishing and marvelous man, Miya Atsumu—Not that Kiyoomi tells him that.

Oh, no.

It would make living with the man impossible. There isn’t even enough space for their things in their tiny one-bedroom apartment. Atsumu’s inflating ego simply has no right to exist alongside them.

Matter of fact, Kiyoomi is kind of glad Atsumu fucked up the suit. It humbles him a little.

“Where is this shop supposed to be located anyway?” Atsumu asks just as Kiyoomi is parallel parking— all the while not missing the way Atsumu watches his hands on the wheel, luminous eyes like flecks of gold. Precious.

“We’re here.”

“Yeah,” he responds, but his eyes are a little hazy and his mouth lingers, parted. Kiyoomi is tempted to plant a kiss on them, bite that lower lip to smithereens.

“Come on, you’re not getting out of it.” Of course, he deflects. Just because he’s a man in love doesn’t mean he’s a forgiving man. Two hundred thousand would definitely work towards persuading him though.

He begins, “That’s not—” but cuts it off with a huff. “I wasn’t gonna. You know I’m sorry, Omi.”

There’s just enough remorse in those words to tug at Kiyoomi’s heartstrings. He’s tempted to release Atsumu from his conscience with another “ _it’s fine_ ,” but he holds his tongue.

However, he has another idea to ease the fierceness with which Atsumu furrows his terrifying eyebrows.

Quickly, He leans over the console, déjà vu aside, all the while he’s pulling down the visor for some semblance of privacy, and steals a peck from Atsumu’s slightly pouting mouth.

To anyone watching, or worse; taking pictures, he’ll begrudgingly announce that he’s never been able to form any immunity to Miya Atsumu and his damned pretty, glittering eyes and let the world make of it what it will.

Besides, he could easily handle vulturous interviewers if he gets to experience Atsumu melting at the touch of his lips. Kiyoomi considers the wisdom of lingering, but it’s not much of a decision, not with Atsumu’s warm hand palming his jaw, his lips dry and soft under his; just as Kiyoomi likes them. Their lips part, and he runs his tongue across Atsumu’s top lip, then takes it into his mouth and nips.

Atsumu sighs. Then, just as he’s going for a second kiss—the hand wrapping around Kiyoomi’s neck tightening, his heavy-hooded eyes glazed over—Kiyoomi puts a hand up to Atsumu’s sternum. He can feel his pounding heart. Marvelous. 

“One is enough, don’t you think? Besides, I have an appointment and you know how I feel about being late.”

“We’re twenty minutes early,” Atsumu says uselessly.

“Precisely.”

Atsumu groans, but lets him go anyway, a move so selfless and unlike him, but Kiyoomi doesn’t know an Atsumu who isn’t this kind, this thoughtful.

*

Miyamura Suits is such a sleek and neat store; it portrays everything Kiyoomi enjoys in an establishment. Even its storefront appeals to him, with elegant, golden typeset on clean, gleaming, glass windows. By his side, Atsumu seems to share the astonishment.

He whistles. “This place must be _expensive._ ”

Kiyoomi gives him a brief look. Then Atsumu groans. “Just… don’t empty my bank account; I want to be able to buy you a house before I retire.”

He ignores the jab of _holy shit, that’s fucking adorable_ in his chest and says, “I won’t make any promises.”

Before he can walk in, however, Atsumu tells him he needs to make a detour. He gives him a wry look. “Don’t worry,” Atsumu says quickly. “I’m not running away. I just need to make a stop somewhere.”

He nods. The allure of the mannequins and their perfect suits sings him towards the entrance, faintly aware of Atsumu crossing the street.

Inside, there stands a tall, well-dressed employee at the front desk, asking first for his information then telling him in a quiet voice that Miyamura will attend him briefly.

Kiyoomi had acted on instinct and called Miyamura precisely the second he discovered Atsumu, sitting on the floor of their laundry room, tearful and ashamed, with his ruined suit. First, he’d kissed those tears away, then he’d asked the suit maker to use his fittings for a suit.

He wouldn’t be walking out with his finished suit; there apparently needed to be some adjustments considering his unstoppable growth. But he can hear his heart in his throat; fluttering with excitement to put on the suit in its base form.

He walks around as he waits; keeping his hands to himself, but letting his mind wander; imagining himself in the beautiful garments on display. There is a vivid green suit that might look garish on some, but his mouth waters at the idea of _him_ putting it on; how it might complement his complexion. He calculates, as best as he can, how much he should save to own most of Miyamura’s designs.

He’s in the middle of fantasizing about a deep burgundy silk pocket square when he hears the faint tinkle of the bell at the door, followed by Atsumu bustling in. Kiyoomi’s eyes go to him; he can’t help but catalogue his body. The very breadth of his shoulders; his thick, elegant neck; his sharp jawline; the way he shoves his hands in his jersey pockets. He stands straight but not really, just enough to highlight his height and draw attention to his impressive girth.

Shifting from marveling over man-made genius to admiring Atsumu’s very own almost-divine existence jarrs him a little. It dares to steal Kiyoomi’s breath, sometimes, the realization that a man of Atsumu’s virility likes _him_. Not that Kiyoomi is shabby or anything, but no one really looks at him and forgets what they’d been about to say. Atsumu, however, is nothing if not a tongue-tying ordeal. Even if his pockets jangle with loose change and arms swing the bag clutches in both hands like he’s on a fifth-grade field trip.

“Where did you go?” he asks.

Atsumu shows him the crinkling plastic bag, inside which are three chocolate bars and a soda.

“Snacks? What, did you think I’d spend the whole day here that I’d make you skip dinner?” Some _hurt_ slips into his tone; can’t help it, having always been a _teensy_ bit overly-sensitive about how meticulous he happens to be, how time consuming he can be.

He pushes aside the acidity of the memories of innocent comments of ‘ _If you need someone to nitpick, take Kiyo-chan_ ,’ from his oldest sister. Since he was a child, he’d had to stomach the fear that someone might shout at him to ‘ _get a fucking move on_ ’ and no matter how hard he steels himself; he shakes a little in fear that Atsumu might tire of him.

Atsumu’s eyes widen. He wonders whether despite the whole _looking like he feels nothing_ face, he’s managed to read Kiyoomi’s thoughts.

Atsumu shakes his head. “They’re not for _me_. They’re for you! I know how grumpy you get when we go shopping.”

The whoosh of anxiety flooding out of him nearly knocks him off his feet, but he resists the urge to swoon. Instead, he sniffs and says, “I’m not a child.”

To which, Atsumu shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Cranky is cranky, age has nothing to do with it.”

And really, Kiyoomi could consume this guy and it wouldn’t be enough. His dumb heart responds to Atsumu’s understanding patience by melting like an ice-cream cone left out in the sun. _Damn it._ He hides the absolute relief sprouting in his chest with a disdainful grunt. He _’s_ _allowed to be the brat in their relationships at times_.

“I get _impatient_ because you spend more than five hours trying on ripped jeans.”

Atsumu pouts. “I can’t help it, okay. I’ve got a fat ass and I like seeing it all dressed up!”

The crassness shouldn’t make Kiyoomi snort this hard, but it does, and they stand there, in the very lovely tailor parlor, Kiyoomi covering his mouth to muffle the giggles bursting from his mouth, with Atsumu watching him. A look far too fond to look anything but _loving_. It used to embarrass Kiyoomi to be looked at like this, but thank god for character growth.

They’re interrupted by a stout old man known best to Kiyoomi as the man with golden fingers. “Miyamura-san, it’s an honor to meet you again.”

Atsumu gives him a look like, ‘Kiss his ass much?’

To which Kiyoomi stomps very gently (read: not) on Atsumu’s foot. He winces but keeps the _oomph_ to a minimum as Miyamura walks Kiyoomi towards the rack of unfinished suits awaiting them.

They quietly discuss the new measurements, all the while Kiyoomi is hyper vigilant to catch Atsumu before he even attempts to touch anything. Then, seeing his hand an inch away from a sixty-thousand-yen tie pin, Kiyoomi hisses, “C’mere, Atsumu!”

He comes over, like a happy little pup. He notices Miyamura doesn’t wield the tape. “Shouldn’t he take new measurements?”

“I will. I just need to put on the beta suit.”

Miyamura leads him to the changing rooms, which is the winning feature of the shop; unlike most places, it isn’t a flimsy curtain devoid of consideration for its patrons’ sense of propriety; it’s a small room with a door and a lock. And it could comfortably fit two people. Not that Kiyoomi had cause to take notice of this quality before.

He carefully undresses, folding each item of his clothing, then stacking them on the corner chair. He tries not to look at his naked reflection; having always preferred to see how cloth fit on his muscle; how the lightweight silk sat across his shoulders or how denim hugged his thighs. Nakedness is vulnerability; it isn’t sexy.

His tense tendons relax as he puts on the pants, then the shirt, followed by the jacket.

This is his second fitting; and it’s a little more than scraps put together. The white basting thread striking against the darkness of the jacket. The padding fits perfectly on his shoulders, but he sees how it might be adjusted to perfection.

There’s a knock of the door, matching the loud hammering of his heartbeat. He ignores it.

“What?” he snaps when Atsumu interrupts his private time with his beloved suit with three more knocks.

Atsumu attempts to poke his head in, but Kiyoomi pushes him out with an index finger to the forehead. “Come on, let me see.”

He huffs to hide the flush in his neck. “Fine.”

Clearly gleeful to have won whatever silly match in his head, Atsumu sneaks in with a grin on his face.

Which then immediately drops when he lays eyes on Kiyoomi.

The silence stretches uncomfortably. “Well? What do you think?” But Atsumu says nothing.

He rolls his eyes; not even an unnatural silence can dampen his pleasure at being dressed in his suit.

He raises his arms, the fluid lines of the jacket moving with him, and the susurrus of fabric against skin is soothing. He looks down at the sleeves before him and bites down on his lip to keep the pleased grin at bay.

Looking up, however, Kiyoomi’s resolve breaks because, if anything, Atsumu looks utterly...smitten. His mouth is slack and gaping, the bag in his hand sliding down his fingertips. Before it falls, Kiyoomi lunges and tightens Atsumu’s fingers around it. “Those are mine, right? Don’t break ‘em, I like my chocolate wafer bars intact, thanks.”

Atsumu is alarmingly still quiet, and it makes Kiyoomi nervous. What’s this man even thinking? Sometimes, he wants to cut through Atsumu’s forehead and discover all the ways in which his brain functions.

“Speaking more words would be ideal, Miya,” he sighs, and, as if hearing his last name on Kiyoomi’s tongue breaks the spell he’s under, Atsumu stirs.

“What the fuck?” he whispers hotly, and Kiyoomi feels the words slide up his skin in a caress and squirms.

“Is that bad?” Kiyoomi asks.

Atsumu puts down the plastic bag—carefully, Kiyoomi sunnily notes—and steps closer until he’s standing an inch away from him.

The changing room isn’t small by any measure, but they are two very tall athletes. There are less centimeters between them than he’d prefer; especially with Atsumu’s eyes that terrifying shade of want. His fingers tingle, wanting to brush Atsumu’s cheek then pry more words out of his mouth.

But he waits because he’s patient and refuses to put his fingers in Atsumu’s mouth (yet).

“Is this like, final, final or a... whatever, fuck, Omi, this is so good,” he blathers, and, at an dizzying speed, the ocean of anxiety at the bottom of Kiyoomi’s belly subsides to a puddle.

Atsumu’s hands rise but they don’t quite land, floating above Kiyoomi’s jacket, as if they are too indecisive concerning where they want to settle. Kiyoomi wonders if he’ll touch him at all because this in-between state of being touched and not is making his skin itch for _something_.

“It isn’t completed, that’s for sure. The hems need to be fixed but he wanted me to try it on since he’s concerned that I might have grown taller in the past two months.”

Atsumu nods. “I get it. I mean, you’re so nasty for not settling on a number.”

He smirks. “Not my fault you had a smoking stint that stunted your height growth.”

Atsumu bares his canines. A grimace or a grin? Doesn’t matter, he’s all teeth, and Kiyoomi weirdly falls harder for him. “Shut up, freak.”

 _You love it_ , he wants to say, but love has yet to grow bigger than this fledgling flame nestled in his heart. It is a relief, really, because even this much of what he feels to Atsumu threatens to burn him down to his core. Any more and he might randomly combust and take everyone with him.

Yeah, this much is enough. It’s safe.

“Say, could you ask Sawamura to wait for like 30 minutes?”

“It’s Miyamura, you ass, and… Yeah, he knows I like to take my time,” he answers before he has a second to think Atsumu’s question over. Then, he tilts his head. “Why are you asking?”

Atsumu’s grin is properly carnivorous, the kind that stirs Kiyoomi’s dormant volcano. He should look away, ignore the wide palm sliding across his own, maybe even push Atsumu away when he puts one foot between his own and says, “Tell him to give you forty minutes.”

When he doesn’t move—doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink, doesn’t function—Atsumu adds, “I’ll make it worth your time,” honeyed-eyes beseeching and challenging and putting him into motion. The list of things Kiyoomi would allow Atsumu if he would only shine those eyes at him is pathetically long. And extensive. And detailed.

 _This is why I should walk with my eyes closed_ , he thinks, as he calls, “Miyamura-san, could you give me thirty minutes with the beta suit?”

He feels Atsumu’s hot breath on his neck when he says, “Forty.”

“Shut up,” he hisses, listening in for Miyamura’s response.

“Sure, Sakusa-san. Take your time. Oh, you friend seemed to disappear.”

Atsumu snorts.

Kiyoomi slaps a palm on his mouth. “Shut up,” he hisses again, his own giggle barely held back. To Miyamura, he says, “Don’t worry about him; if he gets lost, I’ll simply abandon him.”

Then it’s Atsumu crowding the changing room, eyes gleaming hot, sucking the air out of Kiyoomi’s lungs. It should be suffocating. It should be upsetting. But he’s thrumming with glee.

Atsumu seems too happy, so Kiyoomi keeps his mouth shut from voicing said joy and takes small sips of air through his parted lips.

That is his plan until Atsumu shoulders all of him—thighs, shoulders, chest—right into his space, and there is no chance of breathing without inhaling Atsumu’s cologne. It isn’t just his olfactory sense that’s full of Atsumu. The man is ridiculously warm, a human-sized furnace to whom Kiyoomi loves cuddling up, but this is hardly a situation requiring such proximity.

There’s nowhere to look but at Atsumu, collapsing his new resolution to _not_ fall victim to Atsumu’s eyes.

“Omi, you…” Atsumu begins, voice a soft purr, softer than silk, deadlier than a knife’s edge running across Kiyoomi’s throat, “You look so sexy wearing this,” he finishes.

“Eh?” It’s unlike him to make such undignified noises, but he’s genuinely confused. “Really? It’s the suit that has you panting like a fox in heat?”

Atsumu chuckles. “Do foxes go into heat?”

“I can’t really call you a wolf, can I?”

“What about a jackal? I am one.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Once a fox, always a fox.”

“You are _one_ , too, you know,” Atsumu says, his smile sliding into a leer, the tip of his tongue peeking out to press at the center of his upper lip.

Kiyoomi would raze a small village for that smile.

He’s so glad he is just a man, incapable of such feats of devastation.

“I’m not a fox.”

Atsumu’s mouth is glistening now, and for a sickening second, Kiyoomi wonders if he can kiss him like this. “Not a fox, no. But a jackal.”

His thoughts come to a halt. The image of sliding his tongue into Atsumu’s mouth has to take the backseat to the very confusing conversation they are holding.

“What are you implying, Miya?”

Atsumu smirks. “Don’t you ever wanna… You know… suck my cock while wearing this pretty suit?”

He might have taken a step back, except there is no space left in the world to encompass Atsumu’s arrogance; his very well-earned arrogance. He tries for an indignant expression, but judging by Atsumu’s gleeful chuckle, he doesn’t pull it off. He’s too terrified of seeing what he looks like, so he glares down at Atsumu. Son of a bitch just has to make further mental leaps than him, doesn’t he?

And to think Kiyoomi felt guilty for fantasizing of _kissing_ while Atsumu over here is imagining Kiyoomi on his _knees_ for him. Fascinating.

“Ah, Omi, but you’re so pretty like this,” Atsumu says, lifting a hand to his chin. “How am I supposed to resist?” Kiyoomi brushes the touch away, but when it comes again, thumb at his lower lip, he allows it. He can’t reject Atsumu a second time, not really. Any more than once and the yawning pit in him demanded more.

More is bad.

This is good.

He lets Atsumu trail his blunt-edge fingertips across his jawline, tracing his cheekbones, tickling the vulnerable spot behind his ear, while Atsumu’s words float in his head, muddling his peace. Turning it filthy.

On his knees.

In his suit. (An incomplete suit, but _his_.)

With Atsumu’s cock.

In his mouth.

The pad of Atsumu’s thumb is a familiar roughness, sliding past his sighing lips and onto his tongue. It touches his incisors, the glide of it so slow and weirdly good that he has to gather his fingers into a loose fist. He fights to keep his eyes open, staring down at Atsumu, impudence hopefully dripping from his glance. Atsumu seems unfazed. He presses his thumb the tiniest bit against Kiyoomi’s tongue, and Kiyoomi feels drool gather at the corner of his mouth then slide down his jaw. Atsumu catches it with the flick of his index finger before it could drip onto his suit.

“So pretty for me, Kiyoomi,” Atsumu whispers, and the words jostle him up.

With a defeated groan, he lets his eyelids flutter close, and his tongue moves to lick a line from the base of Atsumu’s thumb to the tip.

He hears a bitten out “ _Fuck_ ” and fuck is right. He is about to allow Atsumu to fuck his face.

The slide to his knees is so practiced, he is flushed with shame. When did he stop feeling so conscious of how he looked like this? Waiting and panting for Atsumu’s dick.

“So pretty,” Atsumu says.

A light bulb has been burning in Kiyoomi’s head since that first time Atsumu had looked at him and _seen_ him. Not the boy with his facemask and perpetual frown. But him. Now, he is a man, undeserving and yet still receptive of Atsumu’s bare adoration.

The air is saturated with Atsumu’s scent, and the sound of the zipper is obscenely loud, and if it isn’t for Kiyoomi’s faith that Miyamura would never disturb him, he might have run out of the shop a long time ago.

The thrill of the endeavor grips him by the throat, keeps him right there on his knees, in his precious suit, breaths coming in fast, his heartbeat an unrelenting drum in his throat. He is so hungry; he might pass out.

The knuckles of Atsumu’s hand run across his cheek, soothing, his voice a murmur of, “It’s all right, we can stop any time you want.”

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, his curls moving against Atsumu’s sleeve. “Don’t wanna.” He blinks up at Atsumu. “You planted this horrible idea in my head. I won’t let you back out now.”

Atsumu is all grinning teeth and creased eyes as he says, “You’re the furthest thing from horrible, Kiyoomi.” He is undoing Atsumu’s zipper, pulling down his heavy jeans, revealing his cock, and Atsumu is being nice to him.

He shouldn’t shudder and press his face into Atsumu’s thigh at the whisper of his name, but he is past the point of caring.

Then it’s a relief to open his mouth and let Atsumu press his erection on his lower lip. Atsumu is terrifying like this, towering, the ceiling lights a halo around his bad dye-job. He is a god. So, Kiyoomi opens his mouth wide and takes Atsumu’s hard cock like communion.

Overwhelming or not, he relishes in the stretch, senses too engaged for his mind to think. Mechanically, he curls his tongue and relaxes his throat, loving the velvety texture on his tongue, underlined by steel. For him. Atsumu is hot and dripping in his throat _for him_. Only him.

Kiyoomi only had to put on a suit for Atsumu to be this breathless; this helpless; falling apart into tiny pieces of “More,” “Deeper, please,” and “Fuck.” Atsumu is but a supplicant, pleading, a litany pouring in hot whispers. Idolizing Kiyoomi into a deity in turn.

He puts his palms atop Atsumu’s hands on his shoulders and pulls them to his hair. Looking up, he tries to convey a clear demand to “fucking pull my hair or else” but he’s never needed to tell Atsumu what to do. Their movements are a well-practiced dance. Atsumu curls over him, his fingers big and winding tightly through his hair.

Kiyoomi busies himself performing a little deep-throating, tonguing Atsumu’s slit until he buckles over, begging, “No, no, please, slow down, not that hard, I’ll come—”

“Good,” he whispers hotly, mouth full, head swimming.

The word appears to flip the switch in Atsumu, and he secures his hold on Kiyoomi’s hair, then, slowly, he moves his hips.

Kiyoomi’s mouth slackens in result, and he takes in Atsumu’s gentle rocking, his cock lovingly fucking into him. It’s sweet, but Kiyoomi wants more. He presses Atsumu’s hips closer, faster, until Atsumu looks confident he can fuck into him without hurting him.

It shouldn’t surprise Kiyoomi how well Atsumu steps into this role. Of giver. Of lover. It’s ingrained in Atsumu’s DNA to offer all of him. And Kiyoomi takes and takes with a hunger he’d never allowed himself to acknowledge before. But being on his knees, painting Atsumu’s cock with his spit, is a safe place. He is protected from shame. He feels none of it.

“Fuck, Kiyoomi—” Atsumu bites out, his eyes heavy-lidded but he doesn’t close them. Watching him, Atsumu comes in his mouth with nothing louder than a whimper.

His eyes flutter, the heat on his tongue, filling his throat, burns a little because no matter how many times Kiyoomi has done this, he’s always a little teary-eyed at how good it feels to be this man for Atsumu.

He’s still a little dazed and painfully hard as Atsumu helps him to his legs, but he stops the hand sliding up and down his erection.

“As much as I’d love to come over you, I can’t put my suit in danger of cumstains.”

Atsumu laughs. “I hardly think your come could burn through the fabric.”

He arches an eyebrow. _Do you doubt my virility?_ “Still.”

“Fine. but the second you’re out of it, I’m sucking you dry,” he says like it’s the most reasonable thing to tell any other person.

Kiyoomi clicks his tongue. “Fuck— you said that on purpose, didn’t you? Fucking—”

Atsumu laughs and kisses him, open-mouthed and sloppy, uncaring for the taste of spunk in Kiyoomi’s mouth. The degenerate even hums, “Taste so good, suits you.”

He pinches Atsumu’s ass, then rubs it soothingly. “Keep this up and I’ll make you buy me two suits.”

Kiyoomi is almost bored with how predictable Atsumu is when he whispers back, “Only if you promise to let me fuck you raw in each one of them.”

*

“Sakusa-san, will you please tell us who you’re wearing?”

“My favorite tailor, Miyamura. But he’s making me two more suits before the year’s end, so I can’t reveal too much.”

The interviewer laughs. Then, while she’s busy rearranging her thoughts, Kiyoomi throws a glance at the camera and winks.

No one has to know that neither one of Kiyoomi’s commissions are to _his_ measurements. And that suits him just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> my first sakuatsu; been in my mind since, god, dec 1st? now, it sees the light. thank you for reading. leave me a comment so i can fall in love with you.


End file.
